


Come, seeling night

by Laine



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Past Relationship(s), Sexual Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-20 08:37:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19989241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laine/pseuds/Laine
Summary: He needed her pure. She owed him that much.





	Come, seeling night

**Author's Note:**

> This story was originally written for a Smutty Westeros exchange back in 2014. Yeah, I just going through all my old fics and uploading content to AO3 several years late. OH WELL.
> 
> The title comes from William Shakespeare's "Macbeth".

When his cold, dry, calloused fingertips coast over the smooth skin of her thigh, she hisses a breath through her teeth- just sharp enough, just urgent enough, just panicked enough.  
  
  
She cannot decide whether to feel exhilarated or disgusted as she watches his green eyes widen and his pupils dilate- he recoils his fingers, and the vein at the underside of his wrist tightens and tenses. The golden hand rests on her lower abdomen, just above her sex; she longs to cant her hips up, to rub the solid mass against her pleasure center and revel in the friction...but such knowledge, such deliberation would undo everything, and so she remains still.  
  
  
Jaime leans down to kiss her- no tongue, no ravishment, just trembling lips on (falsely) trembling lips.   
  
  
The rasp of his beard against her chin awakens something within her, something impulsive and primal. Her back arches of its own accord, and although he jolts when her teeth sink into his lower lip, she feels quite certain that she hasn’t betrayed herself.  
  
  
(After all, hadn’t she nipped at Petyr’s lips when first he dipped his hand between her legs? Hadn’t she left love bites on the neck of the nameless, faceless Vale knight to whom she carelessly gave her maidenhead?)  
  
  
The light is low, just a soft limn atop Jaime’s hair. The shadows obscure the finer points of his features, and he’s little more than a blur of emerald and gold. She finds it pleasant, the escape from Joffrey’s jawline and Queen Cersei’s cheekbones- only a vague blend of colors to remind her of girlish longings, to satisfy the aesthete who still lurks within her, despite the unspeakable ugliness she’s seen.   
  
  
He seems just as content with the dimness as she. While Petyr liked to lay her down in golden torchlight ( _all the better to see you, sweetling….such a beauty should never hide in darkness…_ ), Jaime presses close, never trying to lean back and rake his gaze over her naked body. Her pebbled nipples, her milky skin, the auburn hair covering her womanhood...he wants to see none of them, and she’s surprised to feel a pang of affront.  
  
  
( _Am I not beautiful enough? Do I pale in comparison? Am I cursed to be always less, always inferior, the dying sunset instead of the radiant sunrise?_ )  
  
  
Jaime does not shed his tunic; the stale smell of sweat and dust wrinkles her nose, and she longs to pull it up over his shoulders- she’d be free of the stench, yes, but she’d also have full view of his sculpted chest, covered in fair hair…she’d be able to scrutinize the scar that lashes across his abdomen, the harsh ridge she can feel even through the roughspun he wears…  
  
  
But she must be the purest, the cleanest, pristine and untouched and every inch the maiden. The risk would not be worth it. Not in the end.  
  
  
She does not help him unfasten his breeches; he is, after all, loath to accept her aid even when saddling his horse or packing their rucksacks. But their positions make his task difficult, and she hears him grunt his frustration. In an effort to distract- a minor mercy- she kisses him again, lips light and soft and ephemeral.   
  
  
At last he frees himself, and when she feels his hardness against her thigh, the catch of her breath in her throat is no mummery.   
  
  
A bead of sweat glistens on Jaime’s brow as he takes himself in hand. It settles in the groove of a wrinkle- his face is tense, anxious, agitated, and she wishes only to relieve him a little when she cranes her neck and kisses away the perspiration.   
  
  
He flinches and shudders at the tenderness, and she wills herself to ignore the hurt that lodges itself in her belly. But then his cock presses against her opening, and the insult vanishes on its own.  
  
  
It’s clumsy, the way he fumbles with himself, but she still grows wet (wetter than a maiden ought to be, but surely that’s a minor detail, hardly worth her worry). She can tell that his hardness is in a state of flux, threatening to flag at the slightest provocation- he’s already thinking too hard, the brow wrinkles deepening by the second, the sweat continuing to gather at his hairline, silent profanities pushing at his clenched teeth-  
  
  
The stretching and filling that comes with his thrust is such a relief that she nearly misses the chance to cry out. But she remembers. Just in time.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Sansa Stark is no maiden.  
  
  
He knows it the moment he slides into her- yes, she has a young girl’s tightness...and yes, she winced and whimpered and dragged her toes along his ankles, the jagged nails biting through his skin.   
  
  
But it’s something minute, something impossibly subtle that gives her away. It’s nothing he can put into words- even if he weren’t lost in a haze of lust and rage, he’d be unable to articulate the problem. And it is a problem...a hulking, massive, insurmountable problem.  
  
  
 _I needed her pure. She owed me that much._  
  
  
He knows little about women and their bodies- only Cersei’s, but her body was his, so it could hardly be counted. But he knows a great deal about betrayal, about deception and duplicity, lies atop lies atop lies.  
  
  
 _A whore shall be treated as a whore deserves._  
  
  
Her eyes snap open as he quickens his thrusts, pounding and pulsing and striving to split her apart, to crush her into rubble, to wipe her clean, to vanquish, to obliterate.  
  
  
Those eyes, those Tully eyes, clear and blue and lovely and false- they flicker and widen, and if he chose, he could fish an apology out of their depths-  
  
  
But it would not be enough. It could never be enough.  
  
  
As he fucks her, his left fingers digging into her upper arm, his face a hairsbreadth from hers, he wonders whether Cersei’s treachery was so singular, after all. Perhaps it’s just the nature of women, to serve up falsehoods in place of fidelity….perhaps every man knows this pain, this disappointment, this aching, throbbing, violent fury.  
  
  
 _Perhaps we were nothing different. Perhaps we were nothing special._  
  
  
He loses himself in cruel, destructive, sickly thought, plunging so deep that he doesn’t notice his hand clenching around Sansa’s throat until she claws at his wrists. Jaime looks first at his own knuckles- pale, taut and purposeful. Then his gaze lands on the girl, the damsel, the ‘maiden’ in search of ‘rescue’. _Gods, but she’s beautiful._ The color fades from her faces as her breaths falter, and the feast of hues- snow white, river blue, red hair spilling like blood from her head- farther down, her round breasts heave, peaked with pretty pink nipples, dusted with sun spots- and oh, somehow he’s still fucking her, and she’s tilting her hips up, and he watches his lower belly massage her clit- her heart rattles against her breastbone, echoing like thunder-  
  
  
His hand falls from her throat, and she sucks in a greedy, desperate, starving breath, followed by a high, keening moan. Her lashes flutter, and she’s weakened, fragile as a baby bird in an abandoned nest, even as her hands slowly rise to trace his waist and hips.  
  
  
And the curls of pleasure that coil and tighten in his belly….that treachery cuts deeper than all the rest put together.


End file.
